


Fool

by barghest



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Trans Character, boy i cant beleiv eim using that tag in this the year of our lord 2k17, hm, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 17:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11491257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: an argument throws hanzo and jesse apart, and jesse doesn't handle it particularly well.low quality vent fic idfk





	Fool

**Author's Note:**

> work and depression have got me tf down. throws this into the abyss of ao3  
> based a bit of the christmas comic obvs
> 
> this is extremely low quality but i guess i needed to post it before i deleted the word doc off the face of the planet idfk

They argue over something stupid. So stupid that, now, McCree struggles to remember how it even started, or how it got so heated that he had snapped a hand up in exasperation only for Hanzo to falter back, shoulders suddenly stiff, jaw clenched. He had snapped back, fire in his eyes before he had turned on his heel and left the room, cutting Jesse off before he could spit out a retort. Hanzo had not slammed the door, but the effect was the same, the pit of Jesse’s stomach icing over as he scrambled for something to yell after him.

Hanzo had called him an oaf, a fool, an idiot who didn’t bother trying to understand - and in retrospect, Jesse has to agree with him. He runs over the conversation in his head, trying to pinpoint the moment they moved from gentle banter over training techniques to name calling. He recalls a jibe about Hanzo’s insensitivity, a stab at the shorter man’s attitude - then it all swirls into nothing like the ice cubes in his glass, melting into the ocean of his whiskey. The dull ache of a hangover has settled into the back of his skull now as he tries to organise his memories.

Too late does he try to call Hanzo, to connect with him over the comms - but Hanzo is silent over the airwaves, a ghost on base whom he never sees, even when he retraces Hanzo’s usual daily patterns through the practice ranges and the dorms. Jesse checks the medical wing, the look outs, the corners he found Hanzo hiding away in when the man first joined Overwatch, but there is nothing. Hanzo has barricaded him out, and Jesse has no one to blame but himself.

\--

“He’s on a mission,” Genji divulges at last, visor lowered to stuff noodles into his face. He numbers among the few who deign to talk to Jesse when he’s like this, followed by the fumes of gunsmoke and bourbon when he enters the mess hall. “Can’t tell you anything beyond that, it’s all I know.” The chopsticks clack against the metal plating in Genji’s mouth as he eats, legs crossed comfortably on his chair, “try Winston maybe.” 

“He won’t speak to me,” and Jesse knows why, but he hasn’t the energy to wash the red cloth that clings to his shoulders and stick a toothbrush in his mouth every time he thinks of leaving his room. He doesn’t rightly blame him, if he’s honest. Jesse doesn’t cut much of a figure to hold conversation right now. “Least, not about work,” he pokes his own bowl of noodles a little, stirring the broth until shredded cabbage and pieces of meat floats to the surface. It should be appetizing, but somehow it won’t fit the hole within him.

“Then what I’ve told you is all you’re going to get,” Genji shrugs and reaches for a napkin. “If he won’t talk to you, then there’s nothing I can do to change that. Sorry.” He has barely looked across the table all meal, and Jesse keeps his eyes on his food, unwilling to accidentally catch his eye. “You should eat, Jesse.”

\--

The bar is warm, an inviting glow seeping out of the door as it spits out two patrons. Jesse does not hesitate until his hands meet the worn wood of the bar top and the soft leather of one of the stools. If he drinks on base, he runs the risk of Angela’s disapproving glances and others avoiding his line of sight completely - or he faces the empty side of his bed, a cold sliver of mattress missing its occupant, and that is far worse. Hanzo had not long been joining him and staying past dawn, his soft breathing pulling Jesse back to sleep whenever he would wake in the early hours.

“What can I get you?”, the bartender’s voice brings him back to the dimly lit present, and Jesse gestures to the nearest bottle with a whiskey label, prosthetic hand already on his wallet. A glass is placed before him and Jesse looks down into it, two ice cubes swimming through the brown-gold liquid drawing him back to the argument. Of course he had been drinking - something to take the edge off the evening when he was trying to wind down, frayed post-mission nerves needing to be soothed before he could think about bed. Had he tried something? Had he been pushy? He couldn’t remember. Only Hanzo could tell him that.

Jesse drains the glass before the ice can erode, and orders another, the burn in the back of his throat overriding the tightness in his chest. He checks the tightness of his binder surreptitiously, as if it could be what makes his heart feel as if it’s gripped within a fist whenever he tries to breathe. It sits comfortably against him, the elastic even a little loose about his chest - he should get that replaced, should think about surgery maybe, if he could stand the way Angela will look down her nose at him for his current state - and still his ribs seem to squeeze inwards. Shifting in his seat, he throws back the second glass before he is out of breath, a fire trailing down his throat into his stomach as he swallows.

He thinks of what Hanzo would say, to see him seated here, prosthetic hiding under his serape and hat pushed low over his eyes. In the reflections on the lines of glasses behind the bar, he swears he catches sight of a flash of blue, a glint of the gold that Hanzo wears in his hair - but it is only the glimmer of outside lighting when the door swings open. Jesse tries to push it out of his mind, finger raised as he silently orders another.

\--

When they drank together first, Hanzo had brought out sake, stowed away under his bed for a special occasion. They had sat together on his bed, a hand’s span apart, as Hanzo had poured it for them into cups he kept in his nightstand drawers.

“It must be appreciated, if this is your first time drinking it,” he had passed Jesse a cup, their fingertips brushing for just long enough to send a spark up Jesse’s arm. “What do you smell?,” he had gestured to it gently, his knee leaning over to touch the faded denim of Jesse’s jeans.

“Uh, hm,” Jesse had paused to sniff the liquid, “something sweet. Mhm, is that...is that melon? Can I smell melon or somethin’?” The sake had met his lips, flooding his mouth with the fruitiness he had smelt, heavy and warm on his tongue before it slid down his throat. The flavour lingers for a few moments, then it is gone, hot in the pit of his stomach as he went to take another sip. Out of the corner of his eye, he had seen an approving smile on Hanzo’s face. On the tip of his tongue, he had tasted the sake again on Hanzo’s lips, Hanzo’s hand in his hair.

\--

In the corner of the bar, between framed newspaper clipping and the door to the gents, an old style jukebox leans low against the wall. Jesse hadn’t noticed it before - presumably too selfishly lost in himself - but tonight the soft notes attract his attention as he sits at the bar. He recognises the musicians (The Jailhouse Rockers, a semi-popular cover band) and the song (one of their favoured Elvis tracks) as their voices rise into the chorus. Jesse can’t help but grip his glass a little tighter as someone turns the music up a notch.

The woman in purple is back at the other end of the bar, her nails tracing the rim of a highball glass, watching as the bartender mixes her another brightly coloured cocktail. She sticks out like a fresh bruise amid the bar’s other patrons, having lurked among them since Jesse’s second visit - her lurid neon outfits making her hard to miss. Every so often, she will look his way, but say nothing beyond a soft greeting in Spanish that he does not return with more than a tip of his hat. Perhaps she is an enemy, staking him out before choosing to make a move. Jesse has plenty of enemies.

But tonight, again, she does nothing but look his way occasionally. Jesse crunches the ice in his glass and tries to ignore her, signalling the bartender his way once they have finished with the woman’s order. He chooses a scotch, the liquor a lighter golden-orange than his usual choices, but just as fiery on the way down. Jesse rubs at the stubble on his cheeks as he lets the burn settle in his stomach, ignoring the woman’s increasingly pointed glances in his direction.

Still nothing from Hanzo. He had left a voicemail the other night - something apologetic, something meaningful, trying to cover whatever bases he might have disturbed, to smooth over the fact his previous calls had been dropped without an accompanying message - but to no avail just yet. Genji had simply shrugged his shoulders, when probed on how long Hanzo’s mission was to be. Perhaps he had been lying to let Jesse down gently. Perhaps Hanzo wasn’t coming back at all.

\--

It’s too cold to be outside long, but he barely feels it this late at night, the bar granting him a sufficient beer jacket (or the liquor equivalent) for the walk back to base. Jesse ambles along, wrapping his serape around himself, the clink of his spurs accompanying every step. He wonders if it is as cold, wherever Hanzo is.

Few were present when they had argued, and fewer still feel like talking to him about it. They confirm little, but Reinhardt gently assures him that both sides warrant an apology, that it was probably worse for the alcohol, that Hanzo probably doesn’t hate him. The last one, Jesse finds hard to believe. Surely Hanzo would apologise, if his feelings aren’t that strong. Surely Hanzo would listen to the message he has left, read the texts, respond in some small way that acknowledges Jesse’s attempts to apologise.

Jesse casts his gaze upwards, before he heads inside. He wonders if Hanzo looks up at the same stars, wherever he is, and knows that Jesse is sorry.

\--

The same song is playing again, by the same cover band. He remembers the time it came on the radio when he had been on a stakeout with Hanzo, when they had been lying close enough together that he could move the man’s eyelashes with every breath. Hanzo had hummed along softly, barely audible as he had stared upwards to the ceiling, his cheek to Jesse’s shoulder. The sun had just crested the hills beyond the safehouse they had been lying in, beams of orange light filtering in through the blinds.

“Should try singin’ along, maybe,” he had prompted, as the song had drawn to a close. “You got a good ear for notes, it seems.” Hanzo had closed his eyes, a hand settling protectively on his bow.

“I do not sing,” Hanzo had murmured back, but continued to hum anyway, turning so his lips pressed to Jesse’s shoulder as the dawn light crept over them. He had opted to take the next watch, relieving Genji from outside, but not before tucking back strands of Jesse’s hair, nose pressed into Jesse’s beard in a last moment of closeness. The softness of his fingertips had lingered on Jesse’s skin long after the bed had grown cold beside him, Hanzo’s gentle humming hanging in his ears.

\--

“You should stop there for tonight, friend,” the woman in purple speaks to him in Spanish, tapping the toe of her boot against the metal foot rail of her bar stool. Jesse does not remember when she chose to move this close to him, the remnants of a particularly vibrant drink in her hand. He remembers only the clink of each glass in his hand this evening - but, now that he thinks about it, not how many. And that song - the same damn song, which clearly is making some kind of drive to be on everyone’s Christmas wishlist or something, for how often he hears it - has played three times tonight.

The woman extends one finger to boop his nose gently, “it’s late, friend, you should be heading home.” It can’t be that late, surely. He has learned the bar’s hours; it doesn’t close until almost dawn, although rarely does he have company past midnight. “Come on, I will help you,” she picks up his hat, abandoned on the bar stool between them, and dusts it off before setting it at a jaunty angle on his head. Jesse waves a hand in protest, and attempts to signal the bartender for another round - maybe something for the lady too - but she is quicker, lugging his arm around her shoulders before he can open his mouth to order.

“M’not done,” he mumbles, legs heavy beneath him, as if someone has filled his veins with lead. But she shakes her head and tugs him along anyway, no one stopping them as they head out the door.

“You stink,” is her only reply, as she flags down a taxi and hustles him into the back of it. She leans through the window to the driver as Jesse slumps in his seat, oozing down into the faux leather until he loses all semblance of being a human. He feels a wave of embarrassment wash over him as he looks at the woman - he’s never bothered to ask her name - and down at his own hands limp on his lap, sweat and dirt and beer clinging to his fingers. 

He needs a shower. He needs a shave. He needs to either wash or burn half his clothing when he gets back to base, but instead he crawls under the covers on his bed, boots still clinging to his feet.

\--

Hanzo had understood, the heaviness in his bones on the days where no amount of sunshine could lift his spirits. Hanzo had never pushed him to smoke outside, instead opening a window and settling back against him, content with the quiet of Jesse’s bedroom and the warmth of his arms. Hanzo had nudged him into the shower and brought him food, then sat cross legged to brush Jesse’s hair on his lap.

“You would do the same for me,” he would say, when Jesse asked why, his nose pressed to the back of Jesse’s neck as they lay together. His kisses would be soft over Jesse’s shoulders, pressed into the lines in Jesse’s skin left by his binder, and his hands would stroke over Jesse’s sides, careful to avoid anywhere too sensitive. Even in their short time together, he had learned Jesse’s needs.

Clearly Jesse had never learned his.

\--

The song is playing again, soft and lilting in Jesse’s ears. He crushes his hat down onto his head as he takes a sip of his drink, his throat already numbed to the burn. It feels like he is being mocked specifically by the jukebox’s choices this evening. The song finishes and begins again, the twang of a guitar filling the quiet bar. Hanzo has yet to return to base from his mission, and Winston refuses to divulge mission details, adjusting his glasses with a snort whenever asked. The base is quiet around Jesse, unwilling to engage him when he breathes whiskey fumes and cigar smoke more than air. 

The base is cold. The outside world is silent, a swirl of snow at the bar’s murky window. Jesse clutches his glass a little tighter and bids himself not to cry.

Over the music, he hears humming, soft, soft, soft, almost as if he is imagining it. Jesse hunches himself over more, silently cursing the ice in his glass and the bitter taste on his tongue. It grows closer, cutting through the fuzz in his brain until rough fingers touch his shoulder, a weight descending on the bar stool beside his. Without looking, he can tell it’s not the woman in purple - not enough colour or flourish.

“Jesse?,” the humming trails off and the hand moves down his arm slowly until fingertips rest on the wrist of his prosthetic, “Jesse, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t turn his head, trying to unclench his fist before flesh fingers push between his, cold against the temperature sensors in his prosthetic. Jesse stares pointedly at the grooves in the wood top of the bar, chewing the inside of his cheek as the song lifts into the first chorus around them. “Jesse, look at me.”

\--

He had seen Hanzo kill before, seen the cold storm in Hanzo’s eyes when he drew back his bowstring and loosed arrows into the enemy - and Jesse had felt a flash of fear in his chest, followed by the rush of admiration at the deftness of Hanzo’s hands. Jesse had wished to never be at the receiving end of one of those arrows, even if he had joked about it sometimes. He prefered the warm softness in Hanzo’s eyes when their fingers would interlace, the heat in his kisses, the fire Hanzo ignited within him when they could be close.

\--

Hanzo sits with him in silence for a while, as if he is trying to work out what to say. Eventually he reaches for Jesse’s hat and sets it on the nightstand, then leans down to start with Jesse’s boots. They have ended up in Hanzo’s room, his travel bag and bow case still unpacked at the bottom of his bed.

“You should shower,” he’s quiet, little force in his voice. “I can get you fresh clothing whilst you are in there. Have you eaten recently?” Jesse looks at his hands, the scratches on the palm of his prosthetic, the whorls on his flesh fingers. Hanzo places Jesse’s boots beside his own shoes, then gently peels the serape off of his shoulders, his voice little more than a murmur, “shower, Jesse. Go shower now.” The taste of Hanzo’s voice when he says Jesse’s name is sweeter than any candy, and burns more than any liquor.

Jesse stands under the water for a long time. Hanzo’s selection of soaps always smell good and he selects a milky white bar to wash himself with, pushing it in slow motions over his body. Slowly he wonders when Hanzo got back, if he had listened to Jesse’s messages, what he thought of them. Jesse leans his forehead against the tiles of the shower’s walls, the water hot and salty on his face long after he turns the shower off.

They climb into bed together, and he notices the fuzz on the sides of Hanzo’s head, extending his fingers to brush over the grey behind Hanzo’s ears, “you got a haircut.”

Hanzo smiles in the dim light of only his bedside lamp, “it was for disguise, but I liked it enough to keep it. Do you like it?” Jesse nods a little, settling into Hanzo’s arms under the covers. “I owe you an apology, Jesse.”

“I owe you one more,” his head is still hazy, even if Hanzo had interrupted him before he reached his usual limit. “M’sorry, Hanzo,” he turns to press their foreheads together and Jesse feels the tightness rise in his chest, squeezing his eyes closed, “m’sorry for everything, for, for--”

“I apologise too, Jesse,” Hanzo’s lips are ghosting over his, barely a breath away. “I called you names and let myself insult you. We did not need that, from me, from either of us.” And it spills out, all of a sudden - from both of them, arms tightening around each other as they exchange apologies under the covers, fingers tangling in each other’s hair. Jesse misses half of it from Hanzo, his cheeks hot and his eyes wet as he babbles, pressing as close as he can. Hanzo’s lips meet his neck and his cheek and his shoulders, brushing over the tip of his nose as Jesse whispers to him.

“I was wrong too,” Hanzo admits, and he lets Jesse cling to him. “I’m sorry too.”

“I’ve fallen without you,” he can see the disapproval in the others’ eyes when he closes his own, he can see the empty bottles kicked under his bed and the laundry piled high in one corner of his room - and he presses himself closer to Hanzo, chest almost too tight for him to breathe.

Hanzo whispers something he does not hear, mouth pressed to Jesse’s forehead, but he strokes Jesse’s hair until he can feel sleep tugging him away, warm and heavy in Hanzo’s arms.

\--

They clean Jesse’s room together. It takes more than a day, and more than a handful of soft apologies passed between them as their hands touch. They eat in the room, leaning against each other in comfortable silence before they continue to clear it. It's a good start, wobbly as Jesse still feels.

“I missed you,” Hanzo murmurs as they take a breather, a rubbish bag clinking as they set it down. “I listened to your messages when I had signal. I wished to speak to you before I left.”

“I missed you too. I’m sorry,” he manages before Hanzo kisses him, soft and sweet, his tongue all the forgiveness that Jesse needs.

**Author's Note:**

> also based a little on personal/family experience lmao. rushed awful ending im sorry  
> also i totally listened to "cant help falling in love with you" by elvis presley the whole time i was writing this so can you guess what they keep listening to in the bar


End file.
